


For as long as you have time

by queerly_it_is



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Facials, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, sex on a bus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 21:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerly_it_is/pseuds/queerly_it_is
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott drops into the seat hard enough that his teeth click together, Stiles’ body folding down on top of him.</p>
<p>“This is such a bad idea,” he says around a laugh when Stiles slaps at his knee until he scoots back across the seat to make room, shoulders bumping the bottom of the window.</p>
<p>There’s a smirk creeping along Stiles’ mouth. “Aw, Scotty,” he drawls, shaking his head. “You say that like it’s ever stopped us before.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	For as long as you have time

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting this one from tumblr. Title from Panic! at the Disco.

Scott drops into the seat hard enough that his teeth click together, Stiles’ body folding down on top of him.

“This is such a bad idea,” he says around a laugh when Stiles slaps at his knee until he scoots back across the seat to make room, shoulders bumping the bottom of the window.

There’s a smirk creeping along Stiles’ mouth. “Aw, Scotty,” he drawls, shaking his head. “You say that like it’s ever stopped us before.”

He hums into the kiss Stiles bends over to give him, hand on Stiles’ jaw while he spreads his legs and tries to arch away from the chilled window. One of his legs is flat to the back of the seat, the foot of his other one slip-sliding along the bus floor, Stiles awkwardly folded between them. His fingers move along Stiles’ jaw, both of them breathing hard into each other, Scott’s tongue pressing on Stiles’ bottom lip, getting him to open for it.

“I mean it,” he says, low and almost right against Stiles’ cheek, blush warm on his mouth. “If the driver comes back—”

“He won’t,” Stiles says, easy as that, dropping another kiss into the corner of Scott’s lips like a wishing well. He ducks down more, almost in Scott’s lap, scrapes his teeth on the corner of Scott’s jaw and sending shivers down his back. Scott would say it was cheating but he’s kind of busy with the moan stuck in his throat.

Scott grabs at Stiles’ hips, pushes up with his own when Stiles makes a rough, low noise into the side of his neck.

“You sound pretty sure,” he says, voice gone all shaky while he pushes Stiles’ shirt up with a palm on his belly, his chest. He gets his fingers on a nipple and scrapes his nails over it, grins crooked when Stiles gasps and bites his shoulder in retaliation, Stiles’ shudder rolling them both into the thin padding on the seat and his hands pulling at Scott’s clothes.

Stiles swings his leg over Scott’s thigh so he’s pretty much bent double into Scott’s lap, the ridge between the side of the bus and the window digging into Scott’s back. He smiles bright-eyed. “That’s because I slipped him thirty bucks,” he says, fingers spread out on Scott’s chest, stroking down his sides. “Told him to take a long coffee break.”

Scott’s laugh falls out of him as a groan when Stiles starts tugging at his waistband. “How long?” he asks, arching up so Stiles can put more slack into his jeans, get them over his hips. His chest judders when he breathes out.

“Long enough,” Stiles says, shrugging with one shoulder and working a hand down into Scott’s underwear.

Scott doesn’t bite his tongue, but that’s only because he’s trying not to swallow it.

He keeps a hand on Stiles’ hip, the rucked-up shirt falling over a couple of his fingers and showing flashes of Stiles’ belly, dark hair running down into his pants, his dick obvious where it’s swelling out the fabric. He pulls Stiles down more with his other hand on the back of his neck, slots their mouths together and sucks on Stiles’ tongue.

There’s a noisy-wet _snap_ when they pull apart, Stiles’ mouth red and swollen, spit smeared between them in a shiny string. Scott leans his head against the top of Stiles’ shoulder, feels his collarbone against his lips and nips at the shape of it with his teeth, wetting a mouth print onto Stiles’ shirt. He squeezes the point of Stiles’ hipbone, nails dragging across his waist.

“This seat’s way too small,” he mutters, half-laugh and half-groan, because he’s got one foot hanging off the end, shoe catching on the metal frame.

“D’you really care?” Stiles asks, muffled into Scott’s neck, big flat palm rubbing at Scott’s dick over and over, making him twitch, dull _knock-knock_ of his knee on the seat in front where his other thigh is spread to make room. He turns his head to kiss Scott off-angle, pulls at Scott’s lip with his teeth. “Or d’you want me to get you off?”

Scott groans, mouth sloppy and open against Stiles’, smudging his breaths along Stiles’ cheek. “I can care about lots of stuff at once,” he manages to say, then kisses Stiles again like punctuation. “Promise.”

He feels Stiles smiling against his lips, faint scratch of stubble in one corner where he’s missed a spot shaving. Then Stiles’ fingers tighten around his cock, and he can’t do much more than make a too-loud noise and buck up into Stiles’ hand, the twist around the head spreading fire through his hips and stomach even with the awkward angle, precome blurting into his shorts.

It’s a hiss that bolts out from between his teeth when Stiles wriggles his fingers up to where Scott’s damp and leaking, rubs over his slit and crooks the tips in and underneath the lip of his foreskin, jolts stabbing up his spine and his balls pulling tight enough that he has to clench his eyes shut.

Stiles strokes him in tight, fast tugs and twists, slipping through slick and dragging sticky on the underside, blood-hot air trapped between his skin and his clothes making the rest of him feel cold, blocking out the bump against his knee and the cramped arch of his back.

His hips rock into Stiles’ grip, bleary-eyed vision skipping across Stiles’ face from the blotchy pink on his cheeks to the focused pinch of his eyes and his soft, bruised mouth, flick of his tongue showing between them.

“Stiles,” grinds its way out of his throat, every stretch of skin and muscle shaking, heat in the bunched-up tension of his thighs, fucking through Stiles’ fingers and spreading precome on his palm when it grazes over the head.

Stiles’ breath huffs across his cheek, his jaw. “Yeah,” he murmurs, wrist twisting, squeezing harder. “Yeah, c’mon, do it. Do it and you can watch me do this to myself.”

A punched, shocky grunt forces Scott’s lips apart, body taut and bending up into Stiles’ as the tightness in his hips snaps and he comes, spills all over Stiles’ hand and between his fingers. He’s trapped and soaking in his shorts, pulse after pulse that feels that much dirtier when they cling hot to his dick, orgasm scrubbing the air from between his ribs and his feet kicking at different parts of the bus, clang of metal and the knock of thin wood, Stiles’ skin against his mouth and their heartbeats competing in his ears.

He swallows another sound, a whimper, says, “Stiles,” with all the breath he has left while he grabs at him with shaky fingers, tight ring of Stiles’ hand screwing down his cock and coaxing another spurt of jizz that glues his shorts to the head.

Stiles hunches forwards, tip of his tongue running up a tendon straining from the side of Scott’s neck until he gets to his cheek, kisses under his ear. “There y’go,” he’s saying. “That’s it,” and, “Yeah,” like he’s proud of Scott just for nutting into his hand. Scott can feel his come cooling on Stiles’ skin, the slack of his grip where he’s going soft.

He lets his head drop back, neck bent by the side of the bus, window leeching heat from his scalp while his hair crinkles against the glass. He shivers when Stiles pulls his hand out of his underwear, goes for his own zipper while Scott’s hands go back under his shirt, touching as much and wherever he can, sweaty palms skidding on Stiles’ damp skin.

“Now you,” he says, licking the dryness out of his own mouth and swallowing, smiles when Stiles gives up a frantic little laugh and yanks his pants open so hard he almost rips the button off. He drops his fingers into the waist of Stiles’ briefs and tugs them down around his dick, over his balls. He keeps the elastic stretched and out the way for Stiles to touch himself, can’t decide between watching Stiles’ mouth screw up and his eyes go dark and unfocused or the way his own hands are sort of framing Stiles’ while he jerks himself off with fingers that’re still shiny and tacky with Scott’s jizz.

He makes a noise that buzzes in his throat when Stiles smears his shaft with it, pushes his thumb under the head. He can see the slit flaring open around precome that beads out and drips onto Scott’s clothes, the strip of skin between his jeans and his shirt, Stiles’ hips twitching forward and his stomach tensing up while he fucks his hand, Scott still pulling his underwear away for him.

Stiles is always noisy when he does this, even if he tries not to be; little breathy grunts and broken words seep out of the loose corners of his mouth where his tongue’s pried it open, edges pink and spit-glossy. His hand’s making wet, slippery noises on his cock, throat clicking when he swallows, skin flushed dark, and he’s staring down at Scott with his eyes getting eaten by his pupils.

Scott tugs Stiles’ briefs down a little further, keeping one hand on the waistband while he uses his free one to roll Stiles’ balls in his fingers, slides back behind and into the hot space between his cheeks.

“Fuck,” Stiles hisses, dick sliding hard and slick through his fist while Scott brushes around the edges of his hole. There’s nowhere near enough room on the seat for Stiles to spread his legs any further without one knee going over the edge and toppling them both, but Scott’s got the pad of one finger pressing on his hole and the heel of his palm tight to the skin behind Stiles’ balls, Stiles jerking himself faster, rougher, fingers bumping at the ridge of the head.

“You’d better not come on my shirt,” Scott mutters while Stiles bites at his own lips, the hand he’s not using on his dick squeezing vice-tight on Scott’s shoulder a beam to keep himself from collapsing.

There’s a shudder in Stiles’ chest when he breaths that Scott can see, little halting skips of his ribs expanding, sharp pieces of gasps puffing through his nose, veins standing out all up his arm and showing in his neck, strain and tension bleeding off him while the whole world is full of the filthy slip of skin-on-skin, the smell of them in his nose.

“Keep doing that and I really am,” Stiles says, all one rushed gust of air from his mouth when Scott presses harder at his ass, digging with his own thumbnail at the spot under the head of his dick.

Scott shuffles awkwardly lower in the seat, worming down between Stiles’ legs even more. It’s not comfortable, and the muscles his shoulders and stomach are aching keeping his upper half inclined, but he’s right there under the twist and buck of Stiles’ hand on his cock. When he flicks his eyes up Stiles is looking down at him open-mouthed and even redder, sweat a shiny film in the dip at the base of his throat. Another drip of precome lands high on Scott’s chest, a damp oval on his shirt.

“Like this,” he says, has to squeeze his voice through his throat, force it past his lips. “You can—on my face, okay?”

A quake runs fast and hard up Stiles’ body from his hips, hand stuttering and losing his rhythm. The sound he makes is like he’s being strangled, Adam’s apple dropping and his chest seizing up right as come spatters Scott’s chin, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, everywhere in dripping-hot gobs that he licks away when they touch his lips, burning on his skin. It streaks his left temple, lands across the bridge of his nose, and Stiles is wringing himself through it, Scott not shutting his eyes so he can watch Stiles’ muscles give out one at a time, turning slack as his mouth and uncoordinated as his breathing.

He stares up the length of Stiles’ body, can’t smell anything that’s not the heavy-thick smell of the come on his face. There’s light streaking through the window, making Stiles’ face look sharp, his eyes stand out and his mouth look so deep red he could be wearing makeup, and again Scott’s tongue runs across his mouth, dragging in salt and bitterness.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles groans, gasping like he’s been underwater, twitches bending him over more. “Fucking— _look_ at you, christ.”

Scott smiles at him and Stiles’ come dips, cooler now, into the curve of a dimple. He lets his hands drop onto Stiles’ thighs, fingers spanned out on curves of muscle. He imagines how much of a mess he looks to Stiles, pants still undone and face spattered wet-white, his own come covering him inside his shorts. The smile gets a little wider.

“Now you’ve gotta clean me up,” he says, teasing and like he’s won something as he levers himself upright, sighing as the strain on his shoulders eases. “Since this was all your idea.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, grabs at the top of the seat to support himself while he turns and drops down properly next to Scott. “No appreciation for the afterglow,” he says, head tipped back and looseness practically dripping off him, heart slowing down in Scott’s ears. “Gimme a minute and I’ll go find something.”

Scott snorts, lets himself slouch and enjoy the buzz. “Doesn’t have to be _too_ clean,” he says after a minute, considering. He waits until Stiles rolls his neck to the side enough to look at him. “I still wanna smell like you on the ride back.”

 


End file.
